


Everything You Ever

by amorremanet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Child Abuse, Chubby Dean Winchester, Community: chubwinchesters, Dealfic, Emotional Abuse, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Manipulation, Fat Character, Forced Sexualized Contact, Humiliation, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt No Comfort, Kink Without Plot, M/M, Making deals with demons, Parent/Child Incest, Past Abuse, Plot What Plot, Situational Humiliation, Slavery, Verbal Humiliation, Whump, chubby!Dean, chubby!kink, fat appreciation, non-con overtones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-18
Updated: 2012-07-18
Packaged: 2017-11-10 05:05:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/462498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorremanet/pseuds/amorremanet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU set during/after "Devil's Trap." <i>At least the Demon's coming for Dean instead, because… he can handle playing the distraction. At least he's focused on Dean and maybe this will give Sam an edge, something they can use to win this and get Dad back.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything You Ever

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this prompt](http://chubwinchesters.livejournal.com/100652.html?thread=1517612#t1517612) from the ~chubwinchesters request anything meme on LJ: _"Devil's Trap" AU. Takes place when Dean realizes John is possessed by Azazel in Devil's Trap, YED!John feels up Dean instead of trying to kill him and is delighted by his chubbiness. He taunts Dean with how much he likes it and how much his father would disapprove of him being fat. Dean is more embarrassed by his weight than having John's hands all over him._

Dean should've recognized the problem sooner. He should've seen it when Dad called the Colt a, "gun" instead of, "pistol"—because Dad's tour with the Marines ended before he and Mom even thought about getting married, but he's never shaken off the military terms for weapons. Dean should've realized something was up when Dad made it through the whole drive out to this safe-house without making any snide remarks to Dean about wasting a bullet, or his weight, or letting Sam get so close to the line of fire when, tonight, the line of fire was a bunch of demons—more than people have seen walking the earth in years—all of whom had some nefarious designs on Sam.   
  
At the very least? Even if Dean couldn't put all the pieces together until Dad didn't rip his flabby ass apart for wasting one of the only shots they have on this thing that killed Mom and Jessica? Then he should've shot this yellow-eyed son of a bitch possessing his Dad when he still had the fucking chance.   
  
He knows this as soon as he hears the low, rumbling chuckle, the one that sounds so similar to the one that preceded every time Dad ever whooped Dean one for his myriad screw ups. He knows this as he sees the Demon's eyes turn gold, hears the inhuman growl in his voice for the first time and feels the thing's heavy, freezing breath nuzzle up on his cheek. He knows this as his back smacks into the wall and as he watches the demon crowd in on Sam, looking for all the world like their father—wearing his tall body and its hard muscles, stalking around in the wolflike way Dad does when he's on a hunt, even talking with the same kind of condescension Dad would show if he knew what the Demon's just said. The thing about Jess, about Sam shopping for engagement rings…   
  
"God, you demons just love the sound of your own voices…" Dean snaps, grunts, pushes against whatever telekinetic demon crap keeps him pinned to this wall and, as a reward for that, only gets shoved back into place. Only gets a brief regard from the Demon—a chuckle and a quirk of Dad's eyebrows—before the thing turns back to Sam, to going on like friggin' Dostoevsky or some shit about how Sam's _special_  and Sam's  _important_  and the Demon's got  _big plans for you, Sammy_ .   
  
Dean only gets the sensation of  _cold_  plummeting into his stomach and shocking out through the rest of his body, moving in waves that all come from his belly—from how the force that keeps him from moving makes the flab around Dean's waist jiggle and remind him that it's there, that he's been backsliding and stuffing his face like the pig that a good soldier's not supposed to be, with all the side-effects that not even hunting like they do can stave off. That his weight's been climbing ever since he picked Sam up at Stanford and that Dean's just lucky Dad made him keep all the clothes he's picked up after years of yo-yo diets, because Dean doesn't ever want to go get himself new ones, because it's always a case of  _I don't need them yet, I'm starting a diet tomorrow_ .   
  
That he'd clocked in around one-eighty back on Halloween—maybe, at the most, after a big lunch and running through a rainstorm—but that he'd been a good fifty pounds heavier when he and Sam had their tangle with the Rawhead and Reverend Roy. That he'd almost bailed on having sex with Cassie after borrowing her bathroom scale and seeing the bright red  _235_  flash up at him, feeling his cheeks flush hot and dark and itching with the shame of hovering only fifteen pounds off from two-fifty, teetering so close to the highest weight he'd ever held before. That Cassie couldn't keep her hands off him, though, and kept telling Dean how hot he looked, and that those words stuck around, that Dean almost believed them…   
  
Until two months later in Chicago, when—not that long after Meg said,  _so this is Dean?_  with a look on her face like,  _damn, Sam Winchester, how does some gorgeous guy like you end up with a lard-ass loser like this for his sibling?_ —Dad showed up and couldn't let up snapping at Dean, throwing jibes about Dean's fat ass and his fat thighs and his fat stomach into everything, even when he was talking to Sam. And yeah, it sucked. Yeah, it hurt. Yeah, when they split up after that, Dean had a couple-day run of barely eating, of picking at the salads he ordered despite Sam's consternation and protests that he needed Dean to be sharp or chances were good they'd both end up dead. Yeah, that only ended when Dean had a dizzy spell and Sam made him eat—but as long as Dean can get his Dad back, none of it matters.   
  
He'll forget about everything Dad's ever said or done, every insult Dad's ever flung his way, every time Dad's ever made him wish he could just cut all the fat out of his body or made him want to die—Dean will put all of it aside forever… As long as he gets Dad back.   
  
Dean tries to shuffle against the wall, just so he's standing up straight, not halfway doubled over (with his belly's lower curve spilling further over the waistband of his jeans than usual, rubbing up against his legs, all poisonously soft and warm, trying to trick him into thinking he maybe kinda likes it). Maybe he can't grab at the Colt, but Dean's not letting this bastard get the better of him. Dad wouldn't want Dean to just give up, like some jellyfish, some spineless slug. Dad would rip Dean a whole damn world of new ones for not even  _trying_  to get in a position that affords him some goddamn dignity instead of one that lets the Demon know that he can make Dean his bitch.   
  
He even manages this, a little bit. He straightens enough that he doesn't have to strain his neck to avoid looking at the floor—but, this time, Dean almost ruins his own efforts, instead of having them get wrecked up by whatever superpowered, holy water-proof mojo that the Demon's packing.   
  
Dean shivers. Bites on his lower lip to try and keep it back, digs his teeth into the chapped skin until he might draw blood, not that this helps him any. Not that it makes Dean feel anything but pain on top of the hot, sick flush rushing back to his cheeks and the itch that springs up on the back of his neck. And he can't help those. Nothing Dean knows could. Not with the way his flabby thighs grind and flop against each other. Not with the way moving his ass against the wall reminds him of how much weight he's packed on there, reminds him that he's straining the seams in his seat, testing his jeans' integrity if he so much as moves, in danger of them coming apart every time he bends over.   
  
And he hates it. Hates himself, because it's his own goddamn fault that he has to feel like this, that he has to feel all the physical discomfort, to say nothing of the hints of humiliation crawling along his skin. It's his own goddamn fault for being such a screw-up, for letting himself get so fat in the first place—Dean can't put a number on how big he is now, he hasn't seen a scale since Cassie's, but he had to get new clothes after Chicago because the biggest jeans he had couldn't come close to buttoning and because one t-shirt fit him so tightly that Sam had to cut him out of it, and now those replacements have felt snug for…   
  
All Dean knows for sure, though? Is that he's huge, that it's disgusting, that he's a disgrace and Dad's ashamed to even be around him, that Sam can smile and squeeze his shoulders and act as supportive as he wants, but he's probably embarrassed at Dean's size, too—and that, regardless of all that and even if the only people he loves hate his guts, Dean won't show weakness.   
  
He  _can't_  show weakness. Not when Dad's possessed and Sammy's trapped. Not when they need Dean to find some hidden inner competence and access it. Not if he expects to get out of here alive, with Sam intact and his own body in one piece. Dean glares at the Demon's back, hears him talking still but can't understand any of the words (they just wash over his ears and sound like all the adults in the _Peanuts_  cartoon; Dean knows he should try harder to make sense of them, since they're important, but all he hears is  _wah wah waaah_ ).   
  
And all it takes is one glance at Sam's face, at how he's clenched his jaw and started tearing up but won't let himself cry, for Dean to pipe up again and snark: "Can we just get this production over with already, huh? What'd'ya say, Goldeneye?"   
  
It's not courage, for all he really wants to believe it is. It can't be courage when Dean's just doing what he has to do to make things right. Dean's fucked up enough in hesitating when he had the Colt cocked and his finger on the trigger—in letting his heart rule his head the way Dad tried to beat out of him, in letting the thought that he might lose his father (and for real, this time) make him choke. He's responsible for this. For how close the Demon is to Sam, which definitely counts as fucking up the most important job he's ever had, the one where, above all else, he's supposed to  _protect his little brother_ —Dean can't show off any chinks in his armor—he can't break or leave any places where his fears show through.   
  
Not even when Dean shoves back against the Demon's telekinesis, gets forced into place again and feels his gut shake more violently than before, feels it  _jiggle_  like fucking Jello until he wants to throw up.   
  
Not even when the Demon finally looks away from Sam and backs up off him, squints at Dean like he's a puppy who just pissed on the expensive antique rug. Not even when he full-on turns to face Dean, tilting Dad's head and curling his lips up like smoke, and drawls, "Oh, right, you're still here, aren't you. Wanna run that by me again, Dean? Sorry I missed it the first time, but you know how it is… Why waste the energy remembering that you exist when your little brother over here's a damn shining star of your generation."   
  
Dean clenches his own jaw until his teeth hurt—maybe he's not that pissed off just yet, but might as well desensitize himself to it because he doesn't see this ending without this jackass making Dean wish he could Hulk out. He glances over the Demon's shoulder, over to Sam, just for a moment—Sam's still pinned to the wall, but Dean arches his eyebrow, nudges his head toward where the Colt sits on the table—and snapping his eyes back over to the Demon, snapping back into character, Dean huffs.   
  
He looks this damned thing in the eyes and tells him, "All I said was… you wanna maybe get this over with, huh? Because I get it, you've been waiting for this for a long-ass time, but… I gotta tell you, man: I can't stand the monologuing."   
  
"Funny," the Demon says through a chuckle that sounds like a rockslide, finally leaving Sam behind and strolling up to Dean. "That's your thing isn't it, being funny." Dad's boots don't thunder on the floor, the way they would if Dad were himself, the way Dean wishes that they would—they just drum like the lead-up to an execution and set Dean's stomach reeling like he's going to be sick. "Dean Winchester, the boy who'll outlive Death, just because he won't let anything go without snarking about it."   
  
It sucks. All of it sucks, hearing the Demon dress him down like this and watching the Demon inch closer and closer to him. Dean's stomach starts doing flip-flops. His heart races and his cheeks twinge pink, probably the same shade as his favorite lacy panties—but at least the Demon's leaving Sam alone. At least he's coming for Dean instead, because maybe Dean's a fat fuck with no willpower to speak of and maybe he can't do anything else to get them out of this pickle, but he can handle playing the distraction. At least he's focused on Dean and maybe this will give Sam an edge, something they can use to win this and get Dad back.   
  
"You've always got a joke up your sleeve, don't you, Kiddo? It's all a part of your M.O., isn't it? Cut everybody else down with that wit you've built up over the years—bet it doesn't mean you ever get to stop cutting yourself down though…"   
  
He pauses, taking a deep breath, and he's so close to Dean now—so far into Dean's personal space, but still far enough back that they aren't touching—but  _so close_  that Dean can feel the air turn icy around the Demon's mouth. Feel the chill spidering up his neck as the Demon inhales his scent. Dean doesn't stop himself from spitting out some string of syllables he barely even understands—something something, what are you a puppy, something something, you kinky son of a bitch, do you get off on sniffing people—and even before the Demon brushes the backs of his fingers down Dean's cheek, Dean wishes he had stopped. Wishes he had that voice that other people have, the one in the back of his head that might tell him when his ideas are bad ones—but all Dean does is try to fix his posture and end up leaning in toward the Demon.   
  
The Demon smirks like a cat playing with a piece of string. His yellow eyes glint like knives and he scrapes a thumbnail against Dean's cheek. "Yeah… You're Mister Punchline. Mister Last Word. Mister Rapier Wit. Mister, 'Han Solo and Oscar Wilde have nothing on me'—aren't you, Dean?" He hums, pensively, and digs his nail into Dean's flesh. Not enough to hurt, but enough to remind Dean that it's there. "Makes you feel better for a little while, doesn't it? Like you've got the upper-hand, like you're  _not_  secretly a mess… But it never lasts. All it ever does is mask all that nasty pain. Mask the truth until it builds up so much that you have to pay attention to it. You'd really think someone might learn from his mistakes, but you just keep going through all of these motions… It's sad. You try so hard, but you can't even get that pain out of your head for a day."   
  
A roll of the eyes. A shake of the head. "I got no idea what you think you're talking about," Dean says. "Managed to put that  _nasty pain_  aside for long enough to get this far, didn't I?"   
  
The Demon chuckles, knots up his brow and makes a tutting noise that'd sound sympathetic, if it weren't laced with condescension and the too-familiar snarl that's ever-present in Dad's voice. "Yeah, because I missed all that dithering you did when you had that gun pointed on me," he says, snaking his hand down Dean's cheek and to his neck, lingering on ( _oh, fuck_ ) Dean's double chin, pinching at little rolls of fat. "You suspected something was up back at those apartments. You didn't want it to be true, though—you wanted your dear old Dad to maybe have gotten over that drive to snap at you like he does. You wanted him to be grateful that you saved him, relieved that you saved Sam even if you wasted one of Colt's precious bullets to do it…"   
  
He pauses a moment, just kneading Dad's fingers into Dean's flesh, finding more of it than Dean thought he had and muttering,  _oh, yeah, that's really nice_ . Dean can't fight off the blush that rises to his cheeks, so he just snaps, "You have no damn idea what I want."   
  
"Oh, but I do, don't I? You wanted some happy little bonding moment with him, didn't you." The thing snickers, baring all of Dad's teeth like some fucking shark. "You wanted for the strings section to well up with those heartstring-tugging chords, while you and your old man  _hug_ , and he says he's sorry for picking on you for how fat your ass is all these years, you really are all he ever wanted in a son…" He laughs as he goes at Dean's neck harder than he has before, grabs up a bigger roll of fat than he has before and shakes it, digs his thumb nail into it just because he can.   
  
"Well, sorry about that, Tiger," he says, pinching Dean harder, holding fast until he makes Dean whine. "But with how long I've been riding your pops? And considering I don't want to let him go? The last thing he ever said to you for himself is always gonna be, 'I'll see you boys later—and we're putting you on a scale and one Hell of a diet when this is over, Tubby.' …He sure is a great guy, that John Winchester, isn't he. And that's how your father talks to you—that's the man you want to love you,  _Tubby_ … Well, wanted to love you, anyway, because like I said: John's still awake up in here…"   
  
The Demon taps Dad's forehead with his free hand, then drops it to caress Dean's hip and whispers, "but I don't really feel like letting you have him back. Either way, even for me? That self-destructive need to please him that you've got going for you? I gotta say, Dean, that's pretty damaged."   
  
"Damn, and I thought your daughter was bad about talking too much—you take the fucking long-winded jackass cake, you know that…" Dean huffs, ignores the part where his heart skips a beat, and the part where his head spins and his lungs writhe inside his chest because it's like the Demon's inside his fucking head—like the thing knows all his anxieties, knows how much he hates Dad's nicknames for him and how scared he's been that Dad's gonna die before getting one last chance to call Dean by his name instead of picking on him for getting fat again, like putting on weight means that Dean loses the right to his name and can only ever be called Tubby, or Fat-Ass, or Thunder-Thighs. Like Dean hasn't done enough of that shit to himself already. Like Dean doesn't get up every morning and remind himself of just how gross his body is—Dean shoves all of it to the back of his mind because he can't let any of that show. Not now.   
  
Besides, it's not like Dean hasn't heard all those sneers before from people whose opinions actually mattered. Like Dad, first and foremost, starting when Dean was seven and chubby and always got picked last in gym class and didn't complain about all the diets that never worked, not even when Uncle Bobby said Dean just had baby fat so John should back off and let Dean be a kid. Like Sam and Bobby and Caleb and Pastor Jim, but always out of concern and not derision, because they just want to make sure Dean won't get himself killed, if not from a monster then from one of his dumb-fuck weight loss schemes where he stops eating for three or four days. Like Cassie, except it was kind of hot when she called him  _tubby_  because her hands were warm and gentle on Dean's body, and her words were affectionate and soft as she whispered on his skin, and it was all just a part of their foreplay.   
  
Goddamn, and Dean thought demons were supposed to be creative.   
  
Dean sighs, resolved in his decision not to let the Demon see him sweat, rolling a kink out of his shoulders. Tongues at his lips. Tries to stand up straighter and forces himself to look this son of a bitch dead in the yellow eyes—he can't hardly meet Dad's eyes head-on, when Dad's himself, but something's easier about it, now. Like Dean's got just the right kind of fire under his ass, not least because Dad's in there too—stuck inside his own head with the Demon, waiting for Dean to screw up like he always does. Dean growls, fixes his gaze on the Demon's, intent on how he  _can't_  fail Dad like that.   
  
"Guess I was too busy crying at my diary to waste her and her son—oh, wait." Dean smirks. Winks at the Demon and flashes his winning smile. "Sorry, I forgot. I totally wasted 'em. Tell Meg I said, 'hi' once I send you back to Hell."   
  
"Well, that'd be a neat trick," the Demon says, leans in close enough to exhale on Dean's cheek, angles his hips and shifts his whole body closer to Dean's until he's pressing into him, nudging the keen angles of Dad's hips into Dean's, bearing down on the bulge of Dean's stomach with Dad's hard muscle. "That'd be a  _really_  neat trick, Chunky. Especially considering that the Colt's all the way over there and I know you don't have that little exorcism spell of yours memorized."   
  
_Fuck_ —Dean's skin crawls and he tries to suck in his stomach, tries to pull it away from Dad and the Demon—it doesn't work, though. Trying to get his personal space back just makes the Demon follow him, makes him chase after Dean's stomach and rub up on it with that much more intent, grinding into Dean's soft flab, nestling up against the thick, supple rolls that have moved onto on Dean's waistline and digging hard into the bulge and curve of Dean's gut. Dad's chest and stomach are so hard, so enviably built up as they crash against Dean's paunch—not the skinny, lean kind of built like Sam, who's been a beanpole since they were kids, but the the sort of built that's carved out of clawing for survival and goddamn adamantium, like Wolverine's skeleton.   
  
And the Demon snickers—Dean shivers at the sound of it and the frosty way it seeps into the air, curls like smoke against his cheek—he wrinkles his nose, grits his teeth, keeps on staring at the Demon and  _cannot, will not give in_ . He huffs and smirks like,  _is that the best you've got_ , and the Demon just slips his fingers underneath the hem of Dean's t-shirt, pinches at Dean's hip and then his love-handle. He squeezes the paunch, hisses that  _oh, yes, Dean—that feels nice for me, how's it feel for you_ —and it takes every ounce of determination Dean has not to let that crack him. Not to look away, either to the ceiling or down at the Demon pressing into his belly, or even around the Demon's shoulder and over to Sam—they don't have a plan, but Sam's got good instincts and Dean might fuck up everything (again) if he looks anywhere but the Demon.   
  
That doesn't make it any easier, though. Dean's skin crawls like he's got a swarm of bugs wriggling underneath it, and it makes him almost miss the monologuing, getting verbally dissected. Because at least while he was talking, the Demon couldn't put so much of his attention into grabbing at Dean, into kneading at the flesh he has his hand on—has Dad's hand on, rather. Not the Demon's hand—Dad's hand—not that it matters too much since the end result's the same: the Demon has a handful of Dean's fat and Dean has somebody's fingertips digging into him like into dough. For all his heart's racing like Jeff Gordon, Dean huffs and tries to smirk. He curls his lip in disgust and mutters that he got better hand-jobs in high school. All it seems to manage is slicing a grin along the Demon's face—   
  
Along  _Dad's_  face—it's not the Demon's face, it doesn't belong to him, Dean's going to get Dad back so why can't he keep it straight that Dad's body  _is not the Demon's_ . Because Dean's not going to fail Dad again. Sam's going to get free from the wall, eventually, and they'll  _get Dad back_ .   
  
The sick part is that it's not even that different from the way that Dad smiles. It's cold, and it's hard, it's like nails, and it looks so natural on Dad's face that it sends a chill quivering up Dean's spine. If not for the Demon's eyes, Dad might even look right. Look like himself—a thought that makes Dean shudder, makes his fingers claw at his jeans and his thighs, which in turn makes the Demon whisper, _sshhhh_ , lean into the rest of the space between their faces so he can trace Dad's lips up Dean's cheek. They're chapped and rough and they're bitter cold on Dean's skin—Dean's stomach twists up in knots, keeps tightening on itself as all his muscles go rigid, unmoving—even if he weren't pinned to this fucking wall, he probably couldn't get his body to play along with getting the fuck out of here.   
  
He turns his head toward the Demon, though. He feels the Demon's lips dragging along his cheek, pressing into the extra skin there (because Dean's so fucking tubby that even his face is fat), knocking up against his own mouth for all neither of them turn it into a kiss—and Dean wants to do anything but this. Dean wants to be able to move his arms, more than just his hands grabbing at his legs. He wants to shove this son of a bitch off and put a bullet in him on his own, even if he's still inside Dad's body. But Dean fixes his eyes on the Demon's again and snarls into his mouth—into the arctic maw the Demon's turned  _Dad's_  mouth into—just because Dean can't show weakness.   
  
Dean's entire neck burns with the shame of this situation, with how sick he feels, pressing his hip back into the Demon's hand—and his cheeks follow suit, catching fire with knowledge that he's hung up on all the wrong things here. He should be ashamed of how Dad's still in there and  _Dad's touching him like this_ . He should be ashamed of how he doesn't have the exorcism memorized. Even if he only saw it for the first time a couple days ago, back at Bobby's, before they sent Meg packing, Dean should be better prepared than this—but the itch that pricks up along the back of his neck has nothing to do with how he's failing on all counts tonight. How he can't even keep his head about him enough to stay in control of his body—Dean squirms, tries to cover it as adjusting his posture again, not that it works.   
  
His legs slip, knocking his meaty, jiggling thighs against the pillars of Dad's legs, against the muscle that feels bone-hard against all of Dean's blubber—and Dean wishes he'd just fall on his ass, hit the floor, and get the Hell out of the Demon's grasp. Like the Demon  _knows_  Dean's thinking this—like he's back inside Dean's head and refuses to play nicely or let Dean get away from him—he keeps stroking Dean's double-chin, lazily catching the fat between his fingers and jiggling it so that Dean's whole neck shakes. Without taking his eyes off of Dean, without breaking any kind of sweat, he knocks his hips into Dean's again, knocks Dean back into the wall until he swears he feels splinters of wood trying to get through his jeans and into the flesh of his ass. He might not even mind that so much, disappearing into the wall.   
  
And Dean's toes curl up in his boots, all his organs writhe, just from how the Demon manages to get his entire body up on Dean's, manages to press their torsos, stomachs, legs, and hips together. He leans into Dean, rests on him and nuzzles in, sinks into Dean's flab and moves on him in long, slow drags. He grinds against Dean and harder than before, making it clear that Dean's not going anywhere and, even worse, that Dean might have gained more weight than he realized. That he's definitely got more paunch for the Demon to feel up than he would've guessed—the Demon makes Dean feel all of it. Makes him feel how there's barely any fat on Dad's body, and how every inch of Dean's is pudgy, at best, and that's about the understatement of the century. Makes him feel how much lighter than him Dad is and how he's still so much stronger, even without the Demon's supernatural strength.   
  
Making him feel Dad's body closer than Dean's felt most anybody's since his weight got back on the skyrocketing track, since he let himself get so fat.   
  
Definitely closer than he's felt anyone since Cassie, and it's so much different from it was with her. Trying to think about that, trying to pretend he's somewhere else, just reminds Dean of the stark contrast—how she snuggled Dean and nipped at the apples of his cheeks, how she draped an arm around his waist—as much of it as she could get her arm on, anyway—and held him as though nothing else mattered. And that thought just drags Dean back to reality, kicking, screaming, and willing himself not to cry or yelp or show any cowardice.   
  
Dean can't make himself care about the fact that Sam's watching this, that any time he drops his gaze from the Demon's a little bit, he risks seeing Sam pressed up against the other wall. Risks his cheeks flushing because Sam can see all of this, Sam's heard everything Dean and the Demon have said to each other, Sam's had a front-row seat to a show of just how fucked they are, if any part of their potential survival rests on Dean's fat shoulders and his sagging ass.   
  
He can't even make himself care that Dad's hands are all up on him in ways that definitely aren't okay for a father and son—that the Demon's groping at Dean with those huge, rough hands, all hard like the guns and knives that Dad caresses while he cleans them, for which he shows more concern than he can manage for most people, or even that Dad's trapped inside his own head for all of this, just like the demon Meg trapped Meg Masters in her own body and made the poor girl watch while she murdered innocent people.   
  
At least, Dean doesn't care about that on its own merits—he tries, but he can't stay focused on how much this has to hurt for Dad, how he's probably screaming in there, inside his own meat-suit.   
  
All Dean cares about as he tries to burrow back into the wall, tries again to suck in his stomach and  _get. it. away. from. this. asshole_ , is that nobody's touched him like this, not so closely or so thoroughly as this, not since he and Cassie slept together on the killer truck case—and Dean's put on so much weight since then, let himself go and get fatter than ever before—even without having a number for it, Dean knows he's bigger than he's ever been, and  _Dad can feel it, now_ . He's stuck inside his own head, with the Demon, and he's got his hands all over the evidence of how the son who's supposed to be his good little soldier—the son who's supposed to be the good example and who's always supposed to protect his kid brother—let himself turn into this lard-ass, this butterball who can't even defend himself.   
  
How can Dean look out for Sam, much less protect him or take care of him, when he can't even fight back against this thing to save himself, to save his family?   
  
Finally done paying attention to Dean's (goddamn disgusting, how could he get so fat without once trying to stop himself) double-chin, the Demon slithers Dad's hand down Dean's neck and squeezes his shoulder until he finds the bone lurking underneath all of Dean's padding. He slides it down the front of Dean's chest—ghosting over his tits and lingering on them, moving back and forth between them before tracing circles around one of Dean's nipples, nudging his fingers into Dean's flesh and massaging it like he's trying to give Dean a goddamn breast exam—Dean tries to shift his hips back and away from the thing, while he's preoccupied with Dean's tits, but it doesn't work. All Dean gets is the Demon grinding into him again and gripping tighter on Dean's chest, holding fast until it hurts.   
  
Why is the Demon even interested in Dean's chest and the disgusting mounds he's got hanging off of it? They're not even really big enough to pass as tits (some small mercy that is, the part where Dean mostly puts on weight in his ass, his stomach, hips and thighs). His so-called tits are just some pathetic lumps of fat on his chest—but the Demon gives them attention like Dean's some stacked up Playmate with a 32DDD rack of lamb going on under his too-strained t-shirt. Like his boobs are making it ride up on him, making it expose a good-sized strip of Dean's stomach, instead of how fucking fat his stomach is.   
  
He has to fight against the whine building up in his throat, has to force himself to choke it back and ignore the way that it burns going down—but it's getting so hard to keep himself together and Dean's too weak. Nothing helps. Not even the thought of how  _Dad's counting on him_ , and  _Sam's counting on him_ , and how Dean can't fuck this up or  _all of them will fucking die_ . Those things don't ground him, don't strengthen his resolve to fight—they only set Dean's head spinning and make him feel sick with his own failure. His pulse is pounding in his ears as well as his chest. His eyes sting and every time he thinks his cheeks can't get hotter, they flush again and make his stomach churn, besides. His lungs spasm every time he draws breath and it's a war just to keep from gasping.   
  
Even as the Demon pulls back and examines Dean, the trail of cold that he leaves behind hangs around on Dean's face, spots like permafrost on Dean's cheeks and neck. That icicle feeling gets so much worse on his tits, though, with all the attention that the Demon's giving them. Squeezing at them and tweaking Dean's nipple, once it's hard enough to strain against his shirt—Dean groans despite himself, hating that it comes out sounding like some mewling kitten even more than he hates not having a punchline at the ready or some insult that he can pop off and get any kind of decent feeling back.   
  
The Demon's not bothered one way or the other. He just tuts at Dean again, goes on in that unflustered growl, "You know why you couldn't shoot me just now, don't you, Pretty Boy? Nothing much, I just offered you what you  _wanted_ , what you've wanted all these years, buried way deep down, past all this flab and all your wormy neuroses and all this pent-up pain. I put it out there and whatever heroic posturing you try to keep up, you couldn't turn me down until you thought your Dad was in danger. You didn't want to listen to that voice telling you something was up because you wanted the version of your Dad that I offered you—you wanted  _me_ ."   
  
Pausing again and humming under his breath, the Demon spreads out his palm, puts it flat over Dean's heart and holds it there. Drums his fingers along Dean's collarbone. Dean feels like he should say something—feels like he should have anything to say, like this might somehow make it less obvious that Dean's heart is going crazy and his insides are squirming so much that it hurts. Whether or not he notices it—and he has to notice it; he's noticed everything else—the Demon keeps going about this like they've got all the time in the world for him to get his jollies. It's not even that he doesn't seem to care; it's that the rest of the world doesn't seem like it exists to him.   
  
The Demon doesn't show an interest in anything but holding Dean's eyes and continuing to amuse himself with Dean's chest. He glides his hand back over to the tit he was working on, knocks his fingers over the still-hard nipple. He slips his hand under the curve of Dean's tit, cupping it, filling up his whole hand and making Dean's stomach try to plummet out of him as he realizes that there's fat on him that doesn't fit into the Demon's palm.   
  
"Well, maybe you didn't want me exactly," the Demon supposes, kneading at Dean's flesh, "but you sure wanted what I represented. All this time, all those monsters and witches and bad,  _bad_  people you've hurt or killed, and the only thing you ever  _really_  wanted was for your Daddy to love you. No matter how chubby you are, or how fat your ass gets, or how disappointing he finds you even when you're skinny like he wants—you just wanted him to love you and you know he doesn't."   
  
The Demon chuckles—Dean doesn't notice that he's flinched until he hears that nauseating, awful sound, sees the Demon smirking at him. "You know that Sam's his clear favorite," the Demon says, "that he'd send you into the line of fire or on a 'no chance in Hell' suicide mission if you ever outlived your usefulness—and even worse?" He squeezes on Dean's tit, digging in his nail just because he can. "You know that you'd go without raising a fuss, even if darling little Sammy tried to tell you it was senseless—because it doesn't matter what Sam thinks or what makes Sam worry. You  _know_  that Sam's always gonna love you… and even if you didn't?"   
  
Snickering again, the Demon leans back in toward Dean's face, exhales slowly as he traces his lips along Dean's cheek—leaving behind another trail of cold, like he's got ice cubes on his mouth instead of lips—and hisses right into Dean's ear: "It still wouldn't matter as much as making sure your  _Dad_  would hate you slightly less. Think that maybe you'd redeemed yourself in getting killed so he and Sam could live."   
  
He pulls back again, not that far but just enough to make eye-contact with Dean, just enough to let Dean see his poisonous smile. "That's the  _truth_ , isn't it, Dean?"   
  
Dean's whole face burns with shame—he scratches so hard at his thigh that the denim's starting to come apart—he's going to throw up sooner or later, probably sooner if the Demon gets any closer—but Dean's been quiet for too long, and the obligations make his chest feel heavy but Dean  _can't. give. up_ —he tries to spit in the thing's face, but comes up with a case of dry mouth, comes up with his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth, then to the backs of his teeth. So, instead, Dean forces himself to smirk, to snarl at the thing, "Demons lie."   
  
That tastes like denial and vomit in Dean's mouth even before the Demon laughs at him. Not snickers, not chuckles, but full-on belly-laughs, whole face contorting up, pulling back the arm he's had at Dean's side and holding himself while he doubles over. He laughs so hard that Dean feels the motions of his Dad's stomach careening into his own, feels all his flab shaking because of how hard Dad's muscles move, the sheer force of his laughter—and that's all so much worse than the Demon's face dropping to Dean's shoulder, than Dad's hair and beard scraping against Dean's exposed skin, than the Demon nuzzling up on his neck (which barely muffles the noises that the Demon makes—they're still ear-splittingly loud, the wall still seems to tremble behind Dean from the force the sounds sent through the air, and even if they weren't ringing in Dean's ears, he'd feel the Demon's laughter in the exhalations smacking into his neck).   
  
But the effect the Demon's laughter had on Dean's stomach is the worst of everything. Even when the thing settles down, even when he stands up again and grins at Dean and thanks him for that because it's the best joke the Demon's heard in  _centuries_ —even when he flattens his palm back on Dean's hip and presses it back into Dean's chubby side, Dean still feels the rest of his body trembling with the aftershocks of the Demon's awful laughter, and then from the Demon jostling his love-handle, sending tremors through all of Dean's fat. Reminding him in that one action of just how  _huge_  and  _disgusting_  he is.   
  
"I'll give you that one, Dean" the Demon says with his voice barely above a whisper that drags Dean back from his attempts to retreat, caressing Dean's love-handle in one hand and his tit in the other, being gentle enough with both that it sets Dean's head reeling, makes his mouth fall open and his lips tremble—he slumps back further into the wall, even though he's got nowhere else to go, no closer he can get to it, and Dean's not even trying to get away from the Demon now. The whole room's spinning around him, his legs wobble underneath him, and he can't feel his hands, just the fact that he's still clawing at his jeans with one of them.   
  
"I'll definitely give you that one. Demons lie when it suits us, but here's the thing…" The Demon leans in and for a moment, just breathes on Dean's neck, cackling as the shivers wrack Dean's body and, despite the freezing cold, Dean's face stays flushed. "We don't lie as much as people think we do. It's one of those reputations you just can't run from. All because a few of us told a couple lies in a handful of very understandable situations—trying to work around all our rules when we've got our hands tied the way we do? It'll drive you  _nuts_ ."    
  
Dean tries to say something to this—he tries to say anything, but his throat's dry, his voice snagged up in it and his whole being just willing this situation to be over so he can get out of here—and all the Demon does is chuckle. Squeeze on Dean's side. "But somehow," he says, "I think you know that I'm not lying right now, Dean."   
  
He lets Dean's love-handle go, not that this is much better for Dean. Not when the Demon brushes his hand up and down the lumps and flab on Dean's side. Not when he flattens out his palm and brings it around to the fullest part of Dean's stomach, the part where his belly sticks out furthest, even as the rest of it sags. With a fond-sounding snicker, he rests his palm there—doesn't move it at all, and Dean wants to calm down. Wants to trust that maybe, he's finally getting a break from all of this.   
  
Except he can't. Except his heart's still racing, and he's still lightheaded, and his legs still tremble with the need to be somewhere else,  _anywhere_  else. Except demons can't be trusted, especially not this one, and Dean knows better than to think he can, not even for a minute—but the Demon's hand doesn't move. He just holds it there, barely even pressing into Dean's gut.   
  
"I think you're calling me a liar because everything I just said?" He chuckles under his breath and gently nudges his fingertips into Dean's paunch. "It's true. All of it. Every last word I just said about you and your Daddy. About how much you want him to love you and how he never will… All because of  _this_ ."    
  
He doesn't just hold Dean's stomach, now. He squeezes it. Tries to wrap his hand up around as much flab as he possibly can. Dean clenches his eyes shut and shakes his head. Fails, once more, in trying to say something and trying to burrow away into the wall.   
  
"Your dad? "That man you love so much? He'll never love you like you love him, Dean. All because you're not some little skinny thing or toned up like your brother."   
  
The Demon whispers all of that right up against Dean's skin, clutching at Dean's bulging waistline, digging his nails into Dean's flesh like he's caressing Dean, and knocking his hips into Dean's again, rubbing up on Dean's revolting pudge with Dad's muscles. As they bear down on Dean's stomach, those muscles seem even harder than they did before, more toned—there's no other explanation for how they get so much deeper into Dean's flab, or feel like they do. And Dean knows it's stupid, they can't have gotten harder, he's just fat and brainless and being an idiot because the Demon's got him up against a wall, because the Demon's making him deal with what a tub of lard he is.   
  
"That's the truth you can't escape from, no matter how hard you try to run," the Demon says, only pulling back to make eye-contact with Dean, like daring him not to flinch. "The one fact that's always there, kicking around in the back of your precious, messed up little head. The one  _certainty_  that keeps you stuffing your face—which only ever makes it worse, but you don't  _care_  because the food tastes so good and it makes everything hurt so much less."   
  
The Demon's hand is crushing into Dean's stomach now, but he does nothing with that. Only holds onto the lump of blubber, refuses to let it go without even needing to have his commitment questioned. "Because Mister Bacon Cheeseburger doesn't  _judge_  you, and Mrs. Chocolate Milkshake won't  _abandon_  you like your  _Mom_  did when I killed her, like  _Sammy_  did when he went off to Stanford, like your  _Dad's_ done all the time since you can remember…"   
  
At least the hand embracing Dean's tit isn't doing anything either. Sitting there, keeping a hold on Dean—he shouldn't trust this. Should get himself ready for fucking anything. But at least there's some stability for Dean to cling onto.   
  
"And, you know, I don't even blame you for that, Dean?" the Demon huffs, tilts his head  _just so_  and leans back in again, almost like he wants to go in for a kiss—which he doesn't. He just hovers there, exhaling frigid air at Dean's mouth, fondling Dean's chest a moment longer before he moves on from Dean's tits, decides to start tracing Dad's hand back down the middle of Dean's stomach, slowly, dawdling on his motions, dragging his fingers through Dean's flab instead of just over it—Dean can't even snap at the son of a bitch for even  _thinking_  to bring Mom up again.   
  
"It's pathetic," the Demon says, "but I don't blame you for it—I mean, why wouldn't you want your Daddy's approval? He's only a pillar of everything you've ever known in this world. It's only ever been him and Sam and hunting, right?"   
  
"I've had more than that, you son of a bitch," Dean hisses, and with the choked, sobbing noise that sneaks into his voice, he wishes that he hadn't bothered finding his voice.   
  
"Sure. Alright. Maybe you  _have_  had other people in your sad, sorry life. Bobby Singer. That sweet little thing, Cassie… but how many of these other people have really  _mattered_ , Dean? How many of them have even gotten  _close_  to Sam and your Dad?"   
  
Dean tries to answer that, but this time, he can't because all the words he find taste like lies and his tongue trips over them before he can spit anything out. An easy smile seeps across the Demon's face, thinning Dad's lips out and curling them up, and Dean can't stop staring at it… He doesn't notice the Demon moving Dad's hands until both of them are at the underside of Dean's belly. Until his t-shirt's bunched up under his tits and he can feel those bitter cold fingers—not to mention the frozen air all around them—nuzzling up on his bare skin, pricking out goosebumps.   
  
The Demon drums one hand's fingers along the plump, fleshy curve. He lifts it up from where it sags over Dean's tighter-than-he-likes-it belt, and puts both hands to work fondling Dean's gut. Jostling it around, squishing into his flab. Dean tries to straighten up again—he slides his back along the wall and doesn't get anywhere, but it eggs the Demon on. Makes him stop letting his eyes drift elsewhere—and Dean can handle this, if it gets the Demon to finally drop his guard, any attention that's not focused on Dean.   
  
"What're you clocking in at these days, huh, Dean?" the Demon says, brushing his palms over Dean's ragged stretch marks, settling them into the round, ample area that's technically belly but sits closer to Dean's hips, and pushing all of Dean's flesh forward. When Dean glances down at it, down at his flab sticking out and nuzzling up against Dad's stomach, it looks like his belly's so much bigger than he remembers. Which is stupid. Just as stupid as thinking Dad's muscles were any harder than before.   
  
"Do I look like I get into doctors' offices all that often to you, fuck-face?" Dean huffs and forces something like his usual Han Solo, devil may care grin. "Besides, if I had a scale, don't you think I would've gotten on a goddamn diet already? Because I would have."   
  
"Oh, I doubt that, Sugar," the Demon scoffs—but as he keeps up fondling Dean's stomach and playing with his flab, so cool and casual about it that ice wouldn't melt in his mouth, he supposes that Dean has a point about the doctor visits. "Feels to me like you're probably tipping the scales at, oh… two-sixty-nine? Maybe two-seventy or a little more, if you've had a big lunch? Sound about right?"   
  
All it sounds like is Dean's heart skipping a beat or five, and something cold and heavy dropping into the pit of Dean's stomach. As he feels the color draining from his face, Dean shrugs. Snorts at the Demon in some half-assed attempt at laughing, at trying to play it cool. "I dunno—maybe?"   
  
…It'd make sense, though. He's bigger than he's ever been—hearing that number just gives him perspective on how much bigger. And it's almost twenty pounds. Dean's almost twenty pounds heavier than the highest weight he's ever held—no wonder Dad's been so pissed at him, because Dad can probably tell just by looking that his good little soldier's more like an obese little fat-cake—and the only thing that keeps Dean from totally whiting out, completely losing everything in the cloud of worry buzzing around his brain and twisting his insides up in knots? Is the feeling of Dad's t-shirt up against his flesh, of the Demon's hands sliding down and settling on Dean's hips.   
  
He smiles as he pinches Dean's love-handles. And something has to be fucked up in the natural order of things, because Dean almost believes how sympathetic it looks. Dean almost trusts the compassion in the Demon's voice as he whispers, "You don't even  _like_  hunting, Dean. It's not a life you'd wish on anybody else, it's not the life you want… Why don't you just come with me, instead?"   
  
"My family needs me here—"   
  
"Not as much as you need to think they need you."   
  
"How the Hell am I supposed to—I can't go with you anywhere. Not while you're wearing my  _Dad_ —"   
  
"So I'll find a new meat-suit… Probably won't even take an hour." He shrugs, chuckles like it takes some serious effort for him to do so, because Dean's just about the most pitiful creature he's ever seen. "You know, I don't think you really understand, much less appreciate, who I am. Just how powerful I am Downstairs. I could make you a prince in Hell, Dean, and you wouldn't even need to go there. You can stay on Earth and live the  _new_  life that I can give to you…"   
  
"You're a murderer," Dean snaps, stomach turning and thoughts racing. "Sure, I ain't a saint either, but at least I don't go out and tear up innocent families just because I can. You? You're a monster, and I don't want  _anything_  from you."   
  
"Oh, Dean, I'm offended." He squeezes Dean's love-handle and holds on until Dean's whole face flushes, hot and sick and red. And the sickest part is that the Demon sounds like he really means that. "Won't you even consider what I'm offering here? I think you might enjoy it—"   
  
" _I don't care_ —"   
  
"Not even if I'm offering to leave your family alone?"   
  
Dean launches into another insult, but trips up over his own tongue. Trails off into mixed up syllables and, eventually, silence. Gapes up at the Demon and just barely manages to hiss, "You're not serious."   
  
"Oh, aren't I?" Again, he sounds  _honestly_  offended—and as he moves his hands against Dean's sides, it's not to grope him. Just to hold him. Like all the Demon wants right now is physical contact. "I'm a man of my word, Dean. So if I'm saying that I'll back off of Sam? I'll back off of Sam. I've got other special kids like him, and I like him best, but for you? I'll let him go. He's free to do whatever he wants, and he can even have John back, too… Just not you. I want to get you in this deal."   
  
"And all it's gonna cost me is my  _soul_ , right—"   
  
"Not even that much." The Demon's smile looks legitimate and his breathy little laugh sounds affectionate enough to make the hair on the back of Dean's neck stand up on its ends. "If my brothers and sister could hear what I'm offering you, they'd say I'm getting cheated. I mean, giving up Sam Winchester's going to hit Hell where it hurts, and letting your Dad go is signing us up for a world of hurt, and then I'll need to take care of you, but you know what, Dean? It's worth everything I could ever give up."   
  
"Yeah, right," Dean sneers, trying to ignore the way his heart's slowing down, the way this string of bullshit is starting to sound half-reasonable. "It's only worth it because you're not giving up anything and you know it. What's it seriously gonna cost you to chain me up in a basement and starve me to death?"   
  
"Oh,  _Dean_ , no—are you really this obtuse? Or did I misrepresent my intentions?" He sighs and grabs on tighter to Dean's stomach, wraps a whole hand around a roll of flab that's bigger than it has any right to be and digs his fingers into the underside of Dean's belly. Something's curling around in Dean's stomach, hot and sticky—and he knows it too well. He knows  _fuckneedwant_  when he feels it, and he blushes just from the thought that this might actually turn him on.   
  
"I don't want you to lose any of this gorgeous flesh," the Demon says, jiggling it around and trailing his chapped lips up Dean's flushed cheeks. "All of this weight, Dean? I love it. And your subjects will, too, if you want to come be my little prince. If you live with me, then no more diets. You'll be able to eat all those things that you love but try to deny yourself, all that food that your Dad used to say you couldn't have because you were too fat… There's no such thing as 'too fat' where I want to take you. Just  _try_  to tell me that you're not interested."   
  
Dean's knees have behaved themselves for several minutes now, and when they start trembling again, the Demon has to hold Dean's hips tighter, just to keep him from ending up on his ass. He splays one hand out on Dad's chest as the Demon squeezes one of Dean's love-handles, and with his voice barely above a whisper, he says, "Specifics. …What's the Deal you've got in mind  _exactly_ ?"   
  
Dean Winchester might be a spineless, quivering tub of lard, but at least he's smart enough to know you don't sign a contract unless you know what's in the fine print.   
  
The Demon chuckles, and leans in closer to Dean as he says, "You come with me. You're  _mine_ , got that? Keep your soul; you're just my kept boy, and you eat whatever you want, whenever you want it or whenever I say that it's time to eat. In the haven I'll get set up for us, you've got free will for the most part, plus the respect and fear from all the demons who will know you're mine, but if you're a bad little pet? If you cross me?"   
  
He pauses, just short of Dean's ear, and growls, "Then I drop your fat ass down into the Hot Box, and your baby brother's mine, too. Body, soul, humanity, and everything else about him belongs to me—and believe me, Dean? The plans I've got for your little brother are so much worse than anything your Daddy ever dreamt I might be cooking up."   
  
Pulling back, the Demon smiles down at Dean. "And now, on your end? You get protection. You get love. I can even give you a family, if you want one—a  _real_  family, one that loves each other instead of coming with all that baggage and squabbling. You don't have to worry about John and Sammy treating you like garbage, or forgetting you and everything you've given them just so they can duke it out with each other.   
  
"And best of all? You can settle down, get comfortable, be happy. You don't need to hunt anymore. You don't need to worry about saving all those people you don't know, who don't appreciate everything you've ever given up, just to be in the right place at the right time and keep them from dying."   
  
The Demon's smile looks earnest, even as it bares all of Dad's teeth again, even as it twists his lips up into shapes they'd never take if he were himself. "One little kiss on the lips, Dean?" the Demon says. "And I'll give you everything you've ever wanted."   
  
Dean's lower lip quivers and he hates that show of weakness. But he hates the Demon more for making everything sound so simple when it's anything  _but_  that.   
  
With a sigh, he looks down at the sliver of space between them, at his disgusting, fat belly. He hesitates, thinking of how much bigger it could get, if he goes along with this, and how much Dad would hate that, and how Dean shouldn't, how he  _can't_ , how selfish he's being for even considering this Deal, how Dad raised him to be better than this, and stronger, to have a spine (or at least one that he hasn't lost in all his flab, one that isn't weighed down and crushed by Dean's burgeoning obesity)…   
  
And as he turns his eyes back up from the floor, he knows what he has to do. And for the first time in ages, he knows what he  _wants_  to do.   
  
"Dad, I hope you can hear me in there," Dean whispers, staring up into those yellow eyes, smoothing his hands out over Dad's shirt, just hoping that Sam can't hear him. "And if you can? …I am  _so. sorry_ ."   
  
Dean knots hands up in the collar of Dad's over-shirt. Yanks the Demon down and, clenching his eyes shut tight, kisses him harder than Dean's kissed anybody else before. He grinds his lips into the Demon's, except they're also Dad's, except Dean doesn't care, not even when a tongue finds its way into his mouth. He just cares about sealing this Deal.   
  
When they pull apart, nothing happens. The earth doesn't move; fire and brimstone don't start raining from the sky. The Demon just smiles and says,  _excellent… thank you, Dean_ —and when he moves the right way, Dean catches a glimpse of Sam over the Demon's shoulder. He's not pinned to the wall anymore, and he's moving his arms as though he needs to remember how they work. He's milk-pale and wide-eyed, shaking his head like this might make the situation.   
  
He wants to run over there for one last hug before he never sees Sammy again. He wants to tell his little brother that everything's going to be okay. But it's all Dean can do to shake his head back and mouth  _I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry…_   
  
"And by the way, Sugar?" the Demon says, snaking his arm around Dean's waist, cupping his cheek with the other hand and forcing Dean to look him in the eye. "No more of that 'Goldeneye' or 'son of a bitch' or name-calling garbage, you got that? It isn't going to fly anymore." He sighs like a contented cat, steals another kiss. "Where we're going? Call me by my name."   
  
"What's that?" Dean whispers, clutching at Dad's chest as the room starts blurring around them, as he starts losing sight of Sam.   
  
The Demon bites on Dean's lower lip, chuckles like everything's a game to him. "Azazel."

*******

True to his word, Azazel lets Dad go immediately. Once they're out of that shed, he drops Dean in a plush, expensive-looking bedroom in God only fucking knows where, tells him to rest up because teleportation like that can be exhausting. So, Dean kicks off his boots and his jeans. Takes a nap in the comfiest bed he's ever slept in. And when Azazel wakes him up about an hour-and-a-half later, Dean only recognizes him by the yellow eyes.

  


His new meatsuit's shorter than Dad. Shorter than Dean, even. He's lean, and he's pointy-faced with a smile like an oil spill, and his salt-and-pepper hair looks like it wants to escape from the weird comb-job he's got it done up in. Maybe just fly away off his head entirely. His fingers are still freezing cold when he brushes them through Dean's hair, but they don't feel as strong as Dad's, as forceful—they're bony, but affectionate. They trail down Dean's cheek so fondly that it makes his stomach turn. They don't even manage any forcefulness when Azazel snaps them.

  


That one gesture opens the bedroom door, and two stunt demons come in, carrying enormous trays. One has two huge slices of four-layer chocolate cake sitting on it with a little bowl of whipped cream. The other has a three-course dinner: an enormous bowl of clam chowder, a small mountain of french fries, and two cheeseburgers. Not just any cheeseburgers, either—each one has two huge beef patties in it, separated from each other with multiple slices of cheese, tomato, and bacon. There's more cheese and more bacon on top of the patties, guest starring lettuce and onion and what looks like fried eggs.

  


"Go on, Dean," Azazel tells him, smiling fondly and carding his fingers through Dean's hair. "I know you didn't get to have dinner tonight, and I promised to take care of you… It's all for you. Have whatever you want, as long as you finish all of it."

  


Dean wasn't even thinking of passing up this spread. Whatever's gone into everything, the smell of it all is so good… His lips quiver and his hands tremble just from the thought of having to pick something. Picking favorites over everything else, Dean bites into one of the sandwiches first. Moans as he chews, because  _this_? This is the richest, best burger he's ever had in his life—his stomach growls just from having this deliciousness on his tongue… Dean takes his time, mulling over the food and how overwhelmingly good the taste is, chewing like it's going to be on a test later.

  


After the first bite, he can't wait anymore. Dean tears through the rest of the food, foregoing the spoon and just drinking the soup, shoveling handfuls of fries into his mouth and barely chewing before he swallows them. He only slows down halfway into the first slice of cake, when finally, his stomach notices how much food Dean's eaten and starts to protest. Azazel coaxes him through it, tells Dean what a good job he's doing and to just keep on, he's almost there.

  


This is the routine that they fall into: Azazel encourages, and Dean eats. Dean eats constantly, with most of his days dedicated to meals or snacks. He falls into the schedule of feeding times with ease, sidles into a life of laziness and only pauses once in a while. Any reservations he finds are easily silenced when he reminds himself that he made a Deal and he can't get out of it, or he's not just screwing himself over, here. He's probably sending Sam and Dad to their graves on top of it, and all because Fatty Fatty Two-By-Four decided that he didn't want a donut.

  


Dean stops keeping track of how much he eats or what it is—if Azazel or one of the stunt demons puts it in front of him, Dean eats it. He stops keeping track of time, beyond any time when Azazel mentions how long it's been since Dean left his old life behind. Even if he wanted to waste that effort, it's not like Dean has any means by which to keep track of things. He's not allowed a calender or his phone, and there's no pattern to when Azazel guides Dean into the master bathroom and puts him up on the scale. The only thing that's even close? Is that every time he stands on the thing, Dean's gained weight.

  


Besides, his brain never feels like itself anymore. Everything fades away into a haze of food, of exhaustion from eating so much food, of contented, ignorant bliss at having his belly rubbed, of tuning everything out and pretending he believes it when Azazel gropes at all his flab and tells him how beautiful he is. Dean could think about more than that, he guesses, but if he had the time, then where would he find the energy?

  


And it's not that Dean doesn't care about Sam anymore—he could never stop caring about Sam. He thinks about his brother every day. Sometimes, he has nightmares of Sam dead, or Sam and Dad turning on each other, or Sam going Dark Side and ending up with the demons' claws in him anyway, because Azazel said they'd leave Sam alone  _unless he came to them first_.

  


Dean thinks about Sam and Dad during his breakfasts. Mulls over Bobby while he eats his second breakfasts and hopes it's not too bad for him, since wherever he is, he's probably playing peacemaker between Dad and Sam. Wonders what's going on back in the outside world as he chows down on lunch or on his prescribed snacks. During dinner and dessert, Dean worries about how bad it's getting and how badly he wants to get the fuck out of this mansion and go help.

  


Because it's not that coming here could ever take Dean's mind. And it's not that he ever believes it when Azazel says that Dean doesn't have to care about anyone but himself anymore, that Dean's perfect the way he is and doesn't need to sacrifice himself or his happiness, much less break his back for people who don't appreciate him, who don't love him, who only ever want him to change and never even try to understand Dean the way that he deserves.

  


It's just that Dean doesn't wait that long before he tips Azazel's scale at over three-hundred pounds. He thought he put on weight quickly before, but when he sees the bright red  _303_  glaring up at him, Dean's only been the Demon's kept pet for a little over six weeks. New stretch marks spider up and down his sagging belly, which has long since outgrown the t-shirt that Dean came here with and all the similarly sized ones that Azazel provided him with. They're all so tight that Dean's just given up on wearing them at all.

  


Pants are a similar story: Dean's waistline is bigger around than he ever thought he'd let himself get, and with the way he eats, his belly ends up full, taut, heavy, and expanded. Most days, he doesn't put on more than his boxers, which have gotten skin-tight and are showing more than a little bit of strain in the seams. About fifteen pounds ago, trying to put his old jeans on wound up with Dean huffing and puffing and massively uncomfortable. After he hits three-eleven, Dean finally just destroys the things—starts to tear them when he has to force them up his jiggling thighs, and rips them apart when he tries to drag the flaps together.

  


Azazel watches on, chuckling fondly, and as he hands Dean today's after-lunch treat (a plate of oatmeal raisin cookies with chocolate chunks in them, each one easily the size of Dean's hand), he says that he can find Dean new clothes, if it's so important to him. "I hardly see the point of them, though… You'll just outgrow the things, and you really do look so much lovelier without them."

  


Dean shrugs. Nods. Supposes through a mouthful of cookie that Azazel's right, but that he'd still like to have some clothes that fit on-hand. Just in case he should ever need them. Azazel doesn't dignify this request with a response until Dean chomps down on his fifth cookie, and even then, all he does is steal a kiss, poke at Dean's double-chin, and say that he'll look into finding Dean something new to wear, then. Anything to make his kept boy comfortable.

  


As he watches Azazel saunter out of the room, Dean thinks of what he could do with the clothes. As he mindlessly shoves one cookie after another into his mouth, Dean thinks of escaping, running wherever he can get and trying to get back into the swing of helping—but then Dean looks down at his pale gut, all flabby and sagging, even with how taut the stuffing sessions make it.

  


Flushing scarlet, he looks back up—and the sight of his reflection greets him in the full-length mirror he has yet to get accustomed to seeing. Dean knows he's been fat before. He knows he was fat when he got here. But he barely recognizes the fat-ass looking back at him. Even though that guy has Dean's eyes, even though he knows there's no one else it could be, Dean can't help feeling like it has to be a trick. Because demons lie and Azazel wouldn't even break a sweat over enchanting a mirror.

  


Because maybe Dean's packed on over forty pounds in the past two months, but there's no way that he's  _that_  big. That soft and that vulnerable-looking. There's no way that he has rolls of back-fat that thick, or that his hips and thighs have filled out that much. There's no way that he has to sit with his legs spread apart like that, one danging off the edge of the mattress while the other one's stretched out on the bed, just to make enough room for his plump belly, which is  _definitely_  not that big, it can't be that big.

  


There's no way that Dean Winchester was breathing  _that_  heavily—chest heaving so hard that all the flab on his torso jiggles like Jello in an earthquake—just from stuffing his face with cookies, trying to cram all of them down into his stomach before Azazel gets back.

  


Except that there's obviously a way all of this has happened. It's true and it's sitting right in front of Dean as he picks up the raisins and chocolate chunks that fell out of the cookies, as he tries to get as many crumbs into his mouth as possible and licks off his fingers because missing any of his food, even a little bit, might piss Azazel off. Might make him think Dean's not keeping up his end of their arrangement, which makes Sam and Dad fair game to go after even more than entertaining ideas of escape does.

  


Besides, even if Dean got out, where would he go? He can't let Dad or Sammy see him like this—Sam would feel bad about it, like Dean did this all for him and not because, in a moment of weakness, he wanted it. And Dad would probably just kill Dean. Which would probably be better than letting him live, since even if Dean hadn't kissed on this Deal, even if breaking it meant he was allowed to diet again, there's probably no way in Hell that Dean could ever lose all the weight Azazel wants on him.

  


Sighing, Dean pulls the string by his bed, which rings the bell. When the stunt demon shows up, he asks for more of those cookies. When they show up on their tray, an even bigger helping of them than before, he tunes out his stomach's protests and blindly eats, pushes himself on without Azazel here to praise his dedication or encourage him.

  


The only thing hanging over his head is that, without knowing it, Sam's counting on him. That Sam's survival rests on Dean's ability to pig out and stuff his face. That his next milestone is to weigh in at three-fifty, and that if he takes too long getting there, Sammy might end up on Azazel's hit list. And with how awful the cookies start tasting, that's barely enough to keep him going.

  


Dean has no idea how long it's going to take him to hit that landmark, just that it'll take a while, if food starts tasting so sick, so ashy, so disgusting and forced. But maybe they'll taste better, if he just keeps going. Maybe they won't leave such a thick, guilty after-burn in his mouth, if he can break himself into appreciating the flavors and the texture.

  


At the very least, maybe Sam is stronger than Dean ever could be, and maybe he can save everyone on his own.


End file.
